


Always, and Again

by JayJ



Series: Golden Moments in the Stream of Life [16]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Magical Dreams and Manipulations, Pan's Curse Timeline, Rumplestiltskin is Definitely Dead Here, The Year Between Season 3A & 3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayJ/pseuds/JayJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma dreams of a man who drowns her with tragedy.</p><p>The promise of one, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always, and Again

**Author's Note:**

> Take place after the events of 3x11, in the limbo of that one year.

Emma dreams of a man who drowns her with tragedy.

The promise of one, that is. 

He was a peculiar man, a sort of saddened man, a man imbued with a dizzying air of want and temptation, and a man who has shown her too many glimpses of being quite monstrous in character. But a magic man, he was most of all; with his dark and powerful sway. And Emma continuously finds herself caught between him as the embrace of slumber traps and binds her to his words and his will. 

It feels intentional, forceful at times, desperate in others; the apparent need he has only for her. He does this to her— _is_ doing this to her. And she doesn’t know how or why. 

And now the seemingly simple, and wildly unavoidable, act of falling asleep has become some sort of twisted prelude to her own kind of downfall; one Emma cannot escape from, or ever truly fight against. 

And she can’t make him stop. Not this time, at least, and she tries to remember a time when maybe she had. But the thought of that makes her feel too empty inside. 

And the dream is still always the same. 

They linger alone together in a dimly lit room that has no end and no decipherable beginning. She knows this all too well because she’s invested an absurd amount of time and effort looking, and looking, and looking for a way out of it. 

With no such luck.

When the state of dreaming had first led Emma astray and abandoned her in this place she had ignored the lone figure that had occupied the space alongside her assuming his presence was merely an added aesthetic to the recurring and bizarre surroundings that plagued her nightly. That he only existed within the context of the dream for the singular purpose of creeping her out; watching from the shadows with curious and prying eyes but serving no purpose beyond that. 

It helped to explain his total lack of engagement with her; for he had done nothing but stare as Emma wondered around the room aimlessly. Stood by idly as if he were some kind of beast caged by an unseen parameter he could not hope to bypass—at least not by his own devices—and so was patiently waiting to be freed from its cursed trappings. 

By her, she’d realized when it was already too late to matter.

It happened one fateful night—when dream after dream had come and gone and come again and again and again—when Emma had finally grown desperate enough to confront the odd and silent man who stood in the darkened corner wearing his fancy but ruined black suit. 

Marching right up to him she declared, “Who are you? And why the hell are you in my dream?”

But he had only smiled back at her. Grinning broadly at some unknown victory Emma was certain she had never meant to give before stepping out without fear or favor to reach out and touch her.

He was Rumplestiltskin now (had always been, it echoes and echoes). Her dark imagination unleashed. Running wild, and turning itself against her night after night after night.

Now she’s only ever drenched in red.

It must be symbolic in nature, this color she bares here within these vivid dreams of hers that somehow belong to him (or maybe they always have), but Emma considers the vibrant shade of it to be wholly ill-suited for her. It bothers her profoundly to be adorned with such bold meaning, so she prefers it most when it’s finally stripped away and left abandoned somewhere deep in the darker places. 

He—Rumplestiltskin—(Emma needs to remind herself again and again)—likes to tell her often that he is lost and only found when she comes along. Death has claimed him but won’t let him pass beyond this empty realm. He is bound, he tells her, because he is the darkest, the darkness; The Dark One. 

Emma knew that once, she thinks. She knows it still, she thinks, hidden away inside of her. Her heart always aches at the thought. Rumplestiltskin’s twisted little fairytale tends to break down and fade to pieces when it does. 

She stands alone, distant and lost, but the pungent sent of worn leather soon invades her senses; alerting her to his invasive proximity. He weaves dirtied fingers through her hair, almost softly but never quite. 

_Find me..._

“Find me. Find me.” he urges gruffly, always leaning in too closely. “Be my savior once more,” he implores.

But the prospect of that frightens her too much. To be a savior, to be anyone’s savior; what a terrible thing that must be. Instinctually Emma tries to forget the idea of it, to shut it out and force it far, far away. But Rumplestiltskin is too quick to snap at her when she tries, tells her to believe. 

That she needs to believe again. 

Emma’s stubborn though and unfazed by the whiplash of his anger. “Why don’t you try saving yourself,” she bites back, “and leave me be.” 

Then, because it feels important to do so, she adds “I’m happy.” 

She has her son. Emma doesn't say, she has her son. But Rumplestiltskin only ever shakes his head, shakes it as if to say without truly saying that something like that kind of happiness just wasn’t in the cards for a girl like her. And a part of her, despite what she wants to think, maybe feels that way too sometimes.

But still, he appears to become subdued by her rebelliousness. Strange as it was he stares back at Emma like he misses this one thing about her the most. And somehow that softens her fiery resolve. 

“I am incapable of doing just that, you see. Not even for those I care for the most.” He admits, looks to her with a defeated sincerity and a reverence that startles her, and pulls at her fraying soul, “no, it can only be you. That’s the price. It has to be.”

He says it too surely. Says it like it was always meant to be. 

“That’s not fair.” 

She counters, childlike in her growing sullenness and weary. Emma suddenly felt too young, and too old for this. 

But Rumplestiltskin simply tugs at a stray strand of her hair; ignoring her plight, and urges her close, “come along now, dearie, and stop all this fighting. We’ve already done this dance before. It’s a tired game.”

And she follows along against his persuasions. She can't seem to help herself. They have a strangest dynamic, the two of them, Emma finds; one that feels aged, and worn, and natural enough between them for her to ponder its foundation. But still, she has a tricky time following his words. 

She wonders but her mind is so quickly clouded by it; filled with a haze that makes her thoughts tainted with purple smoke and wrong in all the right ways. 

Until an arm snakes around the small of her back; guiding, and insistent in its pull. 

Rumplestiltskin is leading her on. Forcing her towards some inevitable point of no return; breaking her down little by little and laying her down softly against the cold hard truth. 

The stiff wood grinds against her thighs uncomfortably. But she ignores the discomfort it brings her. This was always the strangest and most difficult part.

He’s sat her down—once more of many, many times before—at an old spinning wheel. 

One that’s always been there, but somehow never seen until she’s made to. “Again,” Emma murmurs, staring absent minded at the spindle’s end. At hearing her companion tut aloud in obvious displeasure at her childish inquiry she glides a lone finger along the thread.

It feels kind of like fate.

She pulls her hand back sharply as if burned, “I don’t want to.”

“You never do."

She only glances away and won’t dare look him in the eye. Though she despises how doing so makes her feel, “you can’t make me.”

His voice is dangerously light, “Oh…don’t be so sure about that."

Frustrated, but inherently aware of the futility of any continual defiance, Emma settles herself more comfortably on her little work bench; hiking up her long skirt and adjusting her legs in a more suitable position for performing the task at hand.

And so she begins.

Gradually, the wheel turns as Emma weaves; calming and nearly soothing in its steady motion. But the momentum steadily begins to hasten; the rhythmic flow and technique of spinning the wool into yarn having since become second nature to her with its near nightly repetition. 

Rumplestiltskin simply watches her.

“Focus,” He instructed sharply, clearly trying to teach her something crucial as she spins, but Emma has no clue what that could be. It jars her. Because it’s almost as if he expects her to just know. He’s soon walking in circles around her (like he always has; maybe, maybe not). Eventually settling himself somewhere in the emptiness behind her, telling her pointedly

“You need to feel it.” 

“I forgot…” she mutters off-handedly, suddenly upset with herself while her eyes narrow in an attempt to be more attentive and aware. Then abruptly she stops, murmuring as she leans back in a ongoing daze.

"It’s so hard to remember...”

The details of the dream, she means.

His next course of action means something else entirely. 

It begins here, again and again. As a heated sensation starts tip tapping against her skin like the Pied Piper come to play his alluring and dangerous song; dancing down her throat and over the sharp curves of her spine before Emma feels the all too familiar warmth of a body lining itself against her while a pair of arms casually drape themselves above her own.

Rumplestiltskin eagerly glides his fingers to rest securely within her stiffened ones as he leaned his chin along and then over her crimson clad shoulder. Coarse lips brush against her ear, “I’ll help you then, dearie.” 

And so he does. 

They seamlessly fall into a steady and lethargic rhythm with one another. With him guiding her to his will and his want with a disturbing degree of ease. In these moments, always, Emma feels very much like a tangled up doll lost helplessly under the thumb of the masterful puppeteer. One left to simply follow along against that knowing pull. 

She can’t seem to help herself as Rumplestiltskin hums a sweet “Emma,” against her flesh.The intimacy of the touch rattles her, unsettles her even, but still it makes her feel things she can’t quite comprehend or control. She prefers to think of it as a clever and cunning trick, for anything else would certainly be too meaningful. And this was _certainly_ just a dream. 

But then it happens, as it always does; that spark of magic between them. 

And, as always, Emma’s left momentarily mesmerized by the sight of it glimmering before her very eyes. 

“Gold…”she whispered in awed realization. Heated breath tickles her in an odd sign of acknowledgment. She ponders its briefly before her fingers busy themselves by curling around the formerly woolen thread instead—examining its newly solidified and evolved state—as another pair of hands begin to weave themselves skillfully through their own set of strings.

“This can’t be real.”

The spinning wheel stills.

“Of course it is.”

He tells her surely with a sharp tug. He's grown angry, she knows. Frustrated perhaps was the better word for it. He always is. And Emma feels like she’s somehow completely missed the point.

Of this, most of all. 

He asked her then rather curtly, “is it such a terrible thing? Being here with me? Saving me?”

“It just doesn't feel right.” 

She admits, inclining her head back slightly to study his face, adding after a soft release of held breath, “but not wrong ether. It’s hard to explain.”

Rumplestiltskin’s answer is nearly cruel in its inevitable certainty, “it’s quite simple, really. We belong together, you and I; the Dark One and his darling little Savior. There’s nothing, and no one else for me now. You’ll see. Again and again I'll show you. Until you've awoken reborn, and yourself once more.”

She smiled solemnly, “you almost make it sound romantic. Come to wake me from this deathly slumber, have you? Are you my Prince Charming, then?”

He draws his hand up slowly and lays it down against the expense of her snow white throat; grips it lightly. “No, not at all,” he said with a dark and foreboding delight before leaning in and kissing her cold.

Emma wakes up breathless, always and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, another story by me set within a dream. I seem to really like writing those. I wanted to state this first and foremost in my notes because I can assure you, this won't be the last of them. Fair warning.
> 
> And yay, I actually managed to finish something. I started this way back during the winter hiatus of last season and finally found the drive to properly sit down and complete it (I've been far and away from home, too, so that hasn't really helped the writing process either). Admittedly, I think I could have written more for this, but I also feel like I ended in a really good place. My thoughts often contradict like that. Bear with me, if you will :)
> 
> Not much else to say about this one. Just that I really, really hope you all like it (if any one is still reading these strange and little stories of mine)
> 
> Thoughts and critiques are always welcome. 
> 
> xoxo


End file.
